


can i be close to you?

by layna_lass



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: After Mockingjay, Canon, F/M, In-Canon, Post-Books, everlark, mentions of torture, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 20:32:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13372536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/layna_lass/pseuds/layna_lass
Summary: ❝Peeta and I grow back together❞Post-Mockingjay, Peeta and Katniss find a way to live again. Rated T for mentions of violence and torture.





	1. fill my head with pieces (of a song I can't get out)

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by "Bloom" by The Paper Kites. Definitely recommend listening to it because it's a beautiful song and sort of sets the tone for this fic. Thanks for reading!

 

Tomorrow, it will be better.

 

I say this to myself every day. I'm hoping that eventually, it'll be true. But right now, every day feels the same as the one before it.

 

I struggle through the terrors of sleep until I can't bear it anymore, and then the day begins. Usually, this is before the sun has even begun to rise. On the better days, the fresh air helps me clear my head, and I'm able to go hunting. On the bad ones, I just sit with my arms locked around my knees, lost in waking nightmares.

 

Greasy Sae and Peeta bring breakfast. I eat some of it, feed what I can't stomach to Buttercup. They make polite conversation, and I listen. It's good to have people around. Without them, it feels like everyone is dead. 

 

Sometimes I watch Peeta. I look for the familiar and the foreign, trying to map out this new boy the way I had the old one. It's hard, though. We're so careful around one another; so wary that one wrong move, one wrong touch, could send the other spiraling back into the darkness. We're broken things, after all. Every time I see a piece of the old Peeta— a shy smile, a wry laugh, the hint of pinkness in his cheeks— it gives me something good to hold onto. If he could pull himself out of the prison they made of his mind, surely there's a chance for me.

 

Change happens slowly. Somehow, Peeta still brings me a steadiness I can't find anywhere else, so I find myself drawing closer to him, almost unconsciously. One day, without looking up from my fingers combing through Buttercup's fur, I ask him to stay after breakfast. He says yes. After that, I follow him to his house, and sit at the table while he bakes. 

 

It becomes our ritual. We don't always talk. Often, we spend hours in silence. But in his kitchen, surrounded by a yeasty warmth, as I watch his hands work with quiet confidence, I find a measure of peace that I've only ever felt before in the woods. 

 

One day, I'm staring at a cake that Peeta's frosted to look like a wave, mesmerized by the layered shades of blue and the frothing white sea foam, trying not to think of Finnick and Annie's wedding cake, trying not to think of Prim staring wide-eyed through the bakery's window, when he places something hot next to my hands. I tear my gaze away from the cake and see a cheese bun, fresh out of the oven, perfectly golden. A glance up reveals him watching me with something like uncertainty. Though he doesn't say it, I know this is a question. He's thinking of the time we spent on the Star Squad, piecing together his memories for him. _Real or not real_? 

 

I don't want to remember Boggs' watchful eye, or Jackson's patience, or Finnick's voice—  _"Then you should ask, Peeta. It's what Annie does."_

 

Without thinking, I take a bite of the cheese bun. It's burning hot. I yelp as it scalds my mouth and drop it, tears springing to my eyes. Peeta quickly pours a glass of cold water and hands it to me. Tongue throbbing, I take it and gulp it down, gasping, until the pain subsides. When I set the glass aside, I see that Peeta's turned so his back is to me. His shoulders are moving oddly, almost trembling, as if he's crying or....

 

I narrow my eyes. "Are you laughing at me?"

 

He shakes his head, but when he turns back to face me, a bubble of laughter escapes him. He presses a fist to his mouth, trying to contain it.

 

I growl, "I didn't know it was hot!"

 

"That's usually what steam means, Katniss." He risks a glance at my face, and whatever he sees there sets him off. He grips the counter, his entire body convulsing with deep-bellied laughter. I want to be mad at him, but I haven't heard him laugh like this, maybe ever. I can't help it.

 

I smile.

 

For the first time since Prim's death, I smile. 

 

That night, I carry cinnamon and warmth into my dreams with me. Today was better.


	2. so i thought i'd let you know (that these things take forever)

In the summer, I begin to miss Peeta's touch.

 

We've grown comfortable around each other once more, even dependent, to the point where I'm startled sometimes to look over my shoulder and find him gone. We scare away each others' shadows, keep each other in the here and now. Neither of us ventures from our beaten paths, but we've settled into our holes. That has to count for something. 

 

Peeta doesn't relapse; or at least, if he does, he doesn't let me see it. I look at his hands and can no longer imagine them closing around my neck. But I know by the way they tremble when he's too close to me that he does, and that he may never forgive himself for that. That he may never trust himself to touch me again. 

 

I don't want to press him. I'm so sure that I'm going to do something wrong, and he'll fall back into the tortured fog, once again out of my reach. But there are times—in the night, when I'm sweat-soaked and hoarse from screaming, and the house is so unbearably empty it seems as if I'm the only one left in the world— that I ache to feel his hand ghost against my cheek, his fingers tuck my hair behind my ear, his arms press me close enough to hear his heart. 

 

I ask Haymitch on a rare afternoon when he's sober; or anyways, as close as he gets. We sit on the porch, an untouched lunch between us, watching Peeta leave to make deliveries.

 

I take a breath and pose the question. "Do you think he's okay, Haymitch?"

 

Never mind that none of us are remotely okay. It's a relative word now. 

 

Haymitch picks at a few crumbs on his plate. He eats even less than he used to, if possible. "No. But I think he's better than most at faking it."

 

I think so, too. 

 

We're silent for a while. 

 

"I'm thinking of raising geese," Haymitch says.

 

I don't ask why. 

 

That night, Peeta and I have dinner together— roasted squirrel, wild onions, and drop biscuits. Peeta makes sure I eat. His tone, gentle but firm, his quiet insistence, his watchful eyes; all of it is so familiar, so like how he used to be, it makes me brave. When he starts to get up to clear away the plates, I reach out and take his hand. It's a weak grip, my hand really only curling around the ends of his fingers, but it makes him freeze. Every touch until now has been brief, fleeting, and accidental. 

 

He doesn't pull away, but his body is tenser than I've seen it in a long time.

 

"Aren't you afraid I'll go mutt?" His tone is harsh in a way that Peeta's never was, and it's a stinging reminder that there are some things he'll never be able to get out.

 

But I move closer, lace my fingers tighter, and say, "No." Because he needs to hear it. Because unless I do something, I'm afraid he's never going to stop being afraid of himself. 

 

He stares at our interlocked hands, and breathes deeply. He doesn't pull away. 

 

For a while, we just stay there, Peeta standing, me sitting, neither one of us speaking. Then his grip grows painfully tight, and I hear him whispering " _My name is Peeta Mellark, I'm 18 years old_ ," and he wrenches his hand away. Disappointment blooms in my chest, but I don't move or speak until his breath evens out. 

 

"I'm sorry." His tone is full of shame and regret. "I'm just not... I'm not there yet. I need some more time."

 

I murmur something that might be apologetic or understanding, but Peeta is already leaving, striding out the front door as if he's running away from something. Already, I miss the pressure of his hand in mine. But he said he needed time, and though the promise is threadbare from use, I hold to it anyways: things will get better with time.

 

It's just one more thing I will have to wait for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title inspiration is "First Day of My Life" by Bright Eyes.


End file.
